Poetry Is My Protest: Poem 14

Rapture is our native tongue.
Words, the rungs we climb from the cleft of our longings to the free fall of innocence.

Holding the heel,
We are thrust into 
A neon apocalypse,
Half-timbered in skeletal frame,
Begging lentils in
The bait- and-switch of
Jacob's dream.

We are hunter and the hunted.
We are hunger and on the run.
We are wrestling in dream sequence -limping.
We are swallowing the sky in morsels
too small to be tasted.